


A Superior Man

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Creepy eugenics talk, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, Dehumanization, Exhibitionism, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, M/M, Not at all subtle, Objectification, Propaganda, Public Humiliation, Sass under duress, Size Difference, Size Kink, Tiny badass Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:31:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Captain America is captured by Hydra, Johann Schmidt sees a chance to test Dr. Zola's new formula for reversing the results of Erskine's serum as well as give his soldiers an educational demonstration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Superior Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hydra Trash Party for [this prompt.](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1504.html?thread=2494432#cmt2494432) Thank you to my fellow trash babies for the encouragement.

Steve’s whole body aches like he’s fallen out of a plane, or maybe been caught in an explosion. His head throbs, his skin is cold, and he can’t seem to get enough air. When he cracks one eye open, a bright industrial light blurs in his vision. He can feel a hard, cold surface beneath his bare skin—metal?—and when he lifts a hand, there’s something wrong with it. It’s too light, too small. He pries his other eye open and looks down at himself, at the skinny, weak body he’d worn before Erskine’s formula. 

Beside him, he can hear someone speaking, and he turns his head, the better to hear with his good ear. Two men he recognizes stand a few feet away.

“..is not completely stable,” Zola is saying. “Twenty-four hours at the most.”

“That will be more than sufficient.” Johann Schmidt turns to look at Steve and smiles to see him awake. “Sedate him again, doctor. I do not want to start the presentation too soon.”  
\--

When Steve drifts back into awareness, he’s still in the cold, sterile room, lying naked on a square metal table. The fluorescent light above him shines down relentlessly. But this time there’s also the buzz of many voices in conversation. When Steve raises his head, he sees the room is much bigger than he imagined. It’s a circular arrangement with rows of chairs in tiers around the perimeter: an operating theater, perhaps. The chairs are filled with men in neat Hydra uniforms, all eagerly watching Steve.

“I believe our guest is ready to join the demonstration.” Schmidt appears in Steve’s vision, haloed by the blinding artificial light above. “Welcome, Captain Rogers.”

Steve struggles to sit up, but his reflexes are sluggish, and the proportions of his body feel all wrong. Even after a lifetime of being small, he’d adjusted rapidly to his new, stronger form. To have that taken away from him—how, through some kind of counter-serum?—leaves him disoriented in his own skin. 

Perhaps impatient with Steve’s lack of progress, Schmidt grabs Steve by the throat and pulls him up to sit at the edge of the table. Steve tries to coordinate his limbs enough to struggle, but Schmidt tightens his grip on Steve’s throat. 

“This is what the Americans really are,” Schmidt says to his audience. “They posture and they shout, but in their souls they are all like this pathetic creature.” He releases Steve’s throat and lets him gasp in much-needed air. Then he takes Steve’s chin in his hand and strokes over his lips.

Steve gathers up as much saliva as he can muster and spits in Schmidt’s face. The only reaction that gets is a slow smile. Schmidt gather’s Steve’s wrists in his left hand and grips them easily despite Steve’s resistance while he tugs a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face. 

“You see, like a cornered animal, he will fight, but this is not a thing to be afraid of.” Schmidt yanks Steve’s hands up above his head, almost dragging him off the table. His other hand clamps around Steve’s cock and balls, all but engulfing them in his grip. “This is something small and delicate.” He squeezes Steve’s genitals with crushing strength, knocking a pained shout out of Steve that sends the audience into gales of laughter.

Steve feels his cheeks heating as a rush of shame chases down the pain. “Let me go and I’ll show you delicate,” he growls. 

“Will you, Captain Rogers?” Schmidt flashes a delighted grin, then releases his grip on Steve. “Be my guest.”

For one shocked moment, Steve can’t move. Then his training kicks in. He pulls up his knees and kicks his feet out together, aiming his heels at Schmidt’s belly. Schmidt’s casual twist out of the way means the blow glances off his jacket, but Steve’s right hand is already moving for a follow-up punch. 

A sharp yank to Steve’s ankle pulls him nearly off the table, and he scrambles to rebalance. In this body, he doesn’t have the same strength, so he’ll need to make each blow count. He links his fingers together and swings up, aiming for Schmidt’s chin, but hands catch his forearms and stop him cold. A brutal shove sends Steve slamming back against the table with skull-rattling force. Before he can move, he’s dragged forward, so his ass hangs almost off the table. 

Schmidt leans over him, pinning Steve’s legs against his chest, and pressing Steve’s hands above his head. “You see,” Schmidt says, looking past Steve to play to the watching soldiers. “It claims to have power, but this kind is easily bested by a superior man. Shall I show him his place in the new order?”

Cheers erupt from those watching. 

Schmidt grips Steve’s wrists in one hand—his fingers early encircle them—and undoes his flies with the other hand to the accompaniment of continued applause and shouting. Steve bucks against Schmidt’s hold, but it’s useless, like struggling against rock. A small seed of panic takes root in Steve’s chest as the blunt head of Schmidt’s cock bumps against Steve’s ass. 

“Now, you might think a vessel this small could not accommodate a man who is the pinnacle of scientific achievement. But I say to you this is the only possible function of such a weakling: to fulfill the needs of better men.”

As clapping echoes around the room, Schmidt grins down at Steve and presses forward. His cock feels unbearably large against Steve’s hole, and for a wild moment Steve really think it won’t work, that the difference is impossible. Then, with a stab of pain so deep and all consuming it stops Steve’s breath, Schmidt’s cockhead breaches the ring of muscle and violates Steve’s body.

The hurt radiates through Steve, freezing him in place and killing all thought. Only after he’s able to gasp in air again does he realize Schmidt has released his grip on Steve’s wrists and is stroking his hands down Steve’s chest, making soothing shushing noises. 

“I could stop, if you cannot take it,” Schmidt says, his kind smile bright with underlying menace. “I understand this may be too much for your feeble body. Do you need me to stop, Captain Rogers?”

“No.” Steve tries to pry Schmidt’s hands off him, but gets his wrists pinned again for his trouble. 

“Ah, so you wish me to continue?” Schmidt grins up at his audience. “Captain Rogers is eager to experience the attention of a superior man.”

“I am eager for you to quit yapping,” Steve snaps. “I haven’t got all day.”

“He is impatient. Very well.” Schmidt looms over Steve, pushing Steve’s knees up towards his chest until Steve thinks he might break in half. The hot squeeze of his body around Schmidt’s invading cock sends pain fizzing through already screaming nerves. 

When Schmidt nudges his hips forwards, cramming more of his hard length inside, Steve can’t help the shout that tears free. The stretch is unbelievable: Steve can’t possibly have room inside him for any more. But Schmidt advances, inexorable. 

Steve closes his eyes to block out Schmidt’s obscene grin and clenches his teeth so hard his jaw aches trying to hold in a scream. He feels stuffed to bursting, Schmidt penetrating so deep inside him he expects to feel him in his throat. There’s no space in his mind for plans, or pithy defiance, or anything except the blind panic of being spread wide and taken this way.

“Like our annexing of lesser nations, this lesser man will resist his role at first. But it is not difficult to teach him.” Schmidt snaps forward, stabbing into Steve with relentless force. “See how he learns?”

That spurs Steve past his panic. Though it sends dull red throbs of pain thrumming through his limbs, he struggles, trying to push himself backwards, shove Schmidt off of him, anything to escape that brutal invasion of his body. Schmidt’s grin widens, as if Steve’s movements bring him pleasure, and simply stays where he is, letting Steve writhe while split open on his cock.

Steve fights until his sweaty skin slips against the metal table and his muscles scream in protest and his breath is a painful, shallow rasp in his throat. At last he slumps, gulping in air.

“You see how quickly he becomes docile, when he knows he is bested?” Schmidt pulls back then, and it feels like he drags half of Steve’s insides with him.

Seeing his chance, Steve draws in a quick breath, plants his feet against Schmidt’s shoulders, and shoves. To his surprise, Schmidt rocks backward, freeing Steve. 

Gathering his strength, Steve manages to flop onto his side. Immediately a hand grabs him, big enough to encircle his calf, and drags him back. A shove plants him face first about the metal with the rounded edge digging cruelly into his belly and his legs kicking uselessly into empty air, too far from the ground to reach. 

“Of course, some specimens will need more breaking in.” Broad hands land on Steve’s ass and pull his cheeks apart. A warm glob of something wet lands against Steve’s stretched hole and drips down his crack: spit, as if that has any hope of readying Steve’s too-small body for the monstrosity of Schmidt’s cock. 

Steve aims a kick behind him, but he doesn’t have any leverage, and the attempt just induces a fresh burst of laughter from the watching soldiers. 

Schmidt plants a hand on Steve’s back and leans over him, a crushing weight that presses the air out of Steve’s lungs. “I like that you fight me,” Schmidt whispers to him. “The harder you try, the sooner you will realize you cannot win.”

To his consternation, Steve can’t get in enough breath to fire back a retort before Schmidt straightens up and and slams back into him, breaking Steve open again on his thick cock. Fighting through the searing pain, Steve flails his arms, trying to push Schmidt off, but only succeeds in banging his elbows against the table and scraping his blunt nails uselessly against Schmidt’s uniform. 

As Schmidt begins slamming into him in a punishing rhythm, Steve can’t coordinate his limbs. Every thrust shoves him against the unforgiving metal and sends a burning jolt of pain up his spine. At least Schmidt is sliding more easily inside him: perhaps there’s blood to ease the way, or maybe Schmidt’s just reamed Steve open, forced him to take what his body was never designed for, reshaped him for the function he wants, remade him into a tool to be used for Schmidt’s pleasure. 

Schmidt’s long, smooth thrusts roll in and out like some graceful, horrifying dance. He grabs Steve’s wrists, one in each hand and tugs Steve back into his thrusts. This has the added effect of pulling Steve’s chest off the table, arching his back painfully, and giving him a clear view of the rapt audience. He renews his struggles, which only serve to twist Schmidt deeper into him on each plunge: his belly and hips jar against the table with every stroke.

“Behold,” Schmidt shouts from behind him. “This super soldier of which the Americans are so proud. He is not something to be feared. He is helpless before the will of the superior man.”

Any response Steve makes now will only amuse Schmidt and spur on the spectators, so Steve bites his tongue until he tastes blood. As Schmidt continues to slam into him, Steve pushes the awareness of his body and its current horrors to the back of his mind and looks outside himself, noting the location of the exits, the number of hostile targets, possible resources to be used as weapons. He tries to assemble the information into some useful tactical pattern, but each brutal thrust shatters his concentration and chips at his control. 

Steve has to close his eyes and focus on the taste of blood, or he might scream, and he won’t give Schmidt that, he won’t. 

“The true place of the inferior man is only as a tool to be used.” Schmidt keeps up his punishing pace, fucking Steve through his words, and the bastard isn’t even winded. “He will never be our equal, and he will certainly never defeat us. He knows this, his body will tell him this, and he will give in to the inevitable.” Schmidt pulls out with a wet sound and steps away from Steve to the sound of cheers. 

Steve manages to brace his hands against the metal surface and push himself forward, though where he’s trying to go, he couldn’t say. 

A hand clamps around the back of Steve’s neck, strong enough to lift him bodily. He’s dragged off the side of the table and tumbles painfully to the stone floor. Schmidt pulls Steve up by the hair just in time to see Shmidt’s hand speeding over his cock. He climaxes with a triumphant shout, spurting copious strings of come across Steve’s face and hair. Try as he might, Steve’s pulling against Schmidt’s grip is no more effective than a kitten batting at a lion. He can’t stop what Schmidt’s doing to him, can’t move, can’t draw breath to speak, can’t do anything but take what’s being done to him.

When Schmidt is finished, he bestows one final, delighted grin before shoving Steve to the floor. He motions to two uniformed guards standing by a metal door. “Take him away.”

The two soldiers lift Steve under the arms and drag him out of the room to the thunderous chant of, “Hail Hydra.”

The Hydra goons aren’t even looking at Steve, hanging between them like a limp doll. Steve counts the turns they take down the maze of stone-walled hallways and notes the absence of other guards in the echoing corridors they pass. Everyone must have been assembled for Schmidt’s little performance. There’s no telling how much longer they’ll be busy congratulating themselves; Steve probably has a limited window of opportunity. 

He gets his chance at the end of a corridor when one of the captors drops Steve to fumble with a ring of keys. The extra weight pulls the remaining man off balance. The man with the keys gets the door open and pushes inside, just out of arm’s reach

Steve slumps down and whimpers as if in pain. It’s not even a lie: every part of him aches, from his scalp down to his scraped-up feet.

“Die klappe halten,” the guard snaps, and gives Steve a corrective shake.

Steve lets himself be moved close enough to lift the soldier’s sidearm. He takes out the guard with the keys first, the one conveniently silhouetted in the doorway, and takes a moment to be grateful that he doesn’t need super soldier-quality vision to aim at this distance. The guard whose Luger Steve is holding lunges at him, but Steve learned how to dodge when fighting bullies in Brooklyn, so he knows how to use his small stature to his advantage and duck under the man’s grab. 

Steve dances backwards to stay out of the range of a return swing and plants his feet to aim. The bullet takes the man right in the chest: not a perfect shot, but enough to send the soldier slumping to the floor. 

Steve uses one of the dead men’s shirts to scrub Schmidt’s semen off his face and scrape as much as he can out of his hair. The uniform he strips off is hopelessly baggy, the helmet barely stays on even with the strap fastened, and the boots are worse even with two pairs of socks. Still, Steve figures limited mobility won’t be as big a danger as frostbite if he can get outside. 

The room they’d been taking him to contains medical equipment, including nasty looking needles and sharp metal tools. He doesn’t have time to do a thorough search, but he does spot his shield hanging on the wall like a grotesque trophy. He has to push a chair over to reach the thing, and when he pulls it off its hanger, he nearly drops it; it seems much heavier, now.

With the shield strapped to his back, he feels a bit more protected. He strips all the weapons off the dead men (two guns, two extra clips, two knives) and spends several minutes trying to drag the bodies into the side room before he has to admit he’s not strong enough. He’ll have to trust to speed rather than stealth to make an escape. 

Using the mental map he’d drawn while the Hydra goons were dragging him away, Steve finds a back staircase probably means for servants back when this pile had been built. He knows his “disguise” won’t stand up to any scrutiny—at his height, no one would believe he’s a soldier, and the shield is a dead giveaway in any case—so he freezes at every sound that could be a patrol, and waddles down corridors as fast as he can in boots made for a man twice his size. 

By the time he makes it to the hangar built into the base of the castle-like structure, his body aches, his lungs burn, and the pain in his ass has become a constant radiating throb. He drops to his knees behind a crate to give himself a breather and take stock of the situation. 

There are two small planes positioned near the open door, a row of trucks behind that, and a cluster of motorcycles off to one side. A bank of generators hums and clanks at the far corner. Two soldiers stand at the entrance, one on either side of the door, but both are facing out into the fading twilight, not into the base. 

Steve does a final check for hostiles before easing out of his hiding place and darting across the open space to the first of the trucks. He’s small enough to be hidden from the sentries’ view by crouching to the side of the truck. Slowly, so as to not make any noise that’ll be heard over the whir of the generators, he pops open the hood of the truck. He has to climb up onto the wheel to see what he’s doing, but he finds the distributor, pops the cap, and pulls out the rotor with a bit of effort. Monty’s usually showing him how to keep these things running, not disable them, but Steve can be flexible. 

He eases the hood back down, drops into a crouch, careful not to let the vibranium shield clang against the concrete floor of the hangar, and moves along to the next truck. When he’s pulled all the rotors, he scuttles back to the first truck. His legs nearly buckle under him, so he has to take a moment to just breathe through the persistent, throbbing pain before he can keeping working. 

When he finally pushes himself upright on shaking legs, Steve has a plan. He shrugs off his comically large jacket and rolls it into a long line. He feeds it into the gas tank of the truck, keeping a watch for any soldiers who might be coming to check on the sentries. The lighter that was with the cigarettes of the dead soldier lights on the first try. Steve waits to make sure the jacket has caught, then high-tails it to the far end of the hanger. 

The explosion knocks him on his ass; he doesn’t remember explosions being that loud or that hot. The fall jolted all the parts of him that were already screaming in protest. It takes several seconds for Steve to pull himself up out of the dirt, and even then his ears are ringing. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye and freezes, but the sentries aren’t looking his way. They’re both racing towards the still-burning truck, shouting in German. 

Steve stumbles forward, making himself plant one foot in front of another until he catches himself against the first motorcycle in the row against the far wall. It’s a BMW R75 with a sidecar, and Steve slumps against it in relief. He doesn’t know if he has the strength to keep anything other than himself upright at the moment. With supreme effort, he slings himself into the saddle. It only takes two tries to get the bike started, but everything’s further away and harder to move than Steve remembers. 

When he finally gets the bike moving, he has to swerve out of the way of a soldier who’s finally spotted him. He ducks down, hearing bullets ping off the shield strapped to his back, and roars out of the hangar into the falling night. After a few desperate moments of random switch-flipping, the headlight burns to life and lights up the bumpy road before him. 

With Schmidt fading into the darkness behind him, Steve has every faith that in this body or any other, he can handle what’s to come.


End file.
